Then 'gan the rout and slaughter,
And France's pride was shorn;
Before the shock of sword, and lance,
And cleaving axe, woe then for France,
Her warrior ranks were torn;

Were torn and scattered wildly,

Like leaves before the wind
That swirls them o'er the open plain,
And even as they fled amain
The hot foe pressed behind.

And so, by victory girded,

King Harry and his train

Swept on through weeping France, and bore The glory of the deed, no more,

But glory worth the pain.

Ay! France had cause for weeping
For noble blood then shed,
For her pride and power shattered,
For her forces wildly scattered,

For her captive, and her dead.

But the shout of exultation,

When that day's work was known, Ran on from English shire to shire, As pealing bell and leaping fire Told of the victory won.

And after-generations

The story kept alway,

Of how King Harry and his few So bravely met and overthrew

The hosts of France that day.

MY FIRST ESSAY AT FICTION.

IN

N most local papers there is a column devoted to advertisements with a certain specialty about them, in which the useful is blended with the marvellous. They have a dash of the philanthropic, which tells us that man is not the selfish brute which he is commonly supposed to be, and we rise from the perusal of them with a conviction that there are those among us who delight in proclaiming the merits of others, which of all things is assuredly the most unselfish. When people are ailing they generally take advice or medicine, and sometimes both. The advice, if they are wise, they seek at the hands of a regular practitioner. My experience, however, leads me to the conclusion that the local paper is the Adviser-General of a larger class than is commonly supposed.

I became a writer of the class of fiction which I shall presently describe at a comparatively early age, when I was reading with a private tutor at Blackacre. At that time the Prince of Wales's Theatre was not

open, Marie Wilton must have been in long clothes, and Mr. Robertson had not written Society; so the world, or at least the stallgoing part of it, was ignorant of the blessings which Mr. Chodd is there told a cheap daily paper is capable of conferring upon the masses, "down even to the lowly lucifer seller." In the local newspaper which represented our weekly literature, I was much struck by the many wonderful cures which were reported as having been effected by the use of the medicines which were regularly advertised. To judge from the extraordinary statements it contained, which mostly took the form of letters written by the individuals benefited, detailing their sufferings, the treatment, and its happy results, there was scarcely an ailment known to the College of Physicians for which there was not a specific remedy, and curiously enough, though generally. averse to their names appearing in print, the writers felt bound under the peculiar circumstances of the case to overcome their scruples, and to make known the facts as widely as possible. If true, the medical profession for miles round Blackacre must have been in the same hapless position as the apothecary in Romeo and Juliet. But they were not. I could not understand it. I was determined to fathom the mystery, as it then appeared to me, and I soon found there was no mystery in it; so I resolved to become a writer of fiction.

I

At that time Blair, by means of his Pills, was beginning to comfort all those who were afflicted with gout or rheumatic affections. Here was a capital opportunity for me. immediately transformed myself into a coachman to a fashionable physician, who kept three pairs of horses, but only one man to drive them. I represented myself as being on the box day and night, exposed to all weathers, or, as I expressed it, "to all the trying vicissi tudes of this ever changeful climate." It did not occur to me then, nor to Dr. Blair either, that this was rather tall writing for a coachman. I had good wages, but they all went in what I called doctor's stuff (on reflection, I now think the change of style was too sudden, but Dr. Blair did not seem to think so); I became almost incapacitated, and was on the point of relinquishing my situation, when fortunately— and here was a strong point for the local-I happened to see a report in the - Chronicle

of sudden restoration to health of a man, who for years had, like myself, suffered martyrdom from a similar complaint. I immediately bought a box, and in less than a fortnight I had recovered the use of my limbs, and was

as well as ever I was, &c. The next week the Chronicle informed its readers that, "from among a mass of letters describing the wonderful efficacy of Dr. Blair's Gout and Rheumatic Pills, the following had been selected;" and then appeared my first essay in fiction, in bold and legible type.

What a horrid shame! I think I hear my friend at The Intellectual say as he reads this. Perhaps it was; but it opened my eyes to the credulity of mankind, and it was more amusing than Pliny's correspondence, which was my tutor's favourite Latin author, so I tried my hand at it again. This time I was a widow, left with two children, each of them suffering from whooping-cough in its most aggravated form. They were treated in the regular way by the regular family doctor, but got worse instead of better. It almost broke my heart to see the poor little things. Fortunately, my eye rested upon an advertisement in the shire Chronicle of Mrs. Johnson's American Soothing Syrup. I rushed to the chemist and got a bottle. Wisely selecting one child only for the experiment, I tried it for a couple of days. The effect was wonderful.

The child who had remained under the care of the regular doctor sank under the attack. The other, after a few doses, recovered. I went on to say that " I thought it my bounden duty to make the fact as public as I could; and though very averse to allowing my name to appear in print " (I thought this would tell, and it did)," they were at full liberty to make any use of my letter they might think fit. Indeed, it was a thing no mother should be without." Again I was gratified by reading my second work of fiction the following week as an elegant extract "from the many letters received, &c."

Still I was not satisfied. The medicines I had up to that time patronised were of a limited nature, suited to one complaint only, and I felt there was room for a third work of fiction in a wider and more exhaustive field. So I called to my assistance Mr. Frampton and his celebrated Pill of Health. Now, as a matter of fact, I enjoyed excellent health at the time.

Gout might be looming in the distance, but the whooping-cough was a thing of the past. How was I to propitiate Mr. Frampton? His pill was a fine conception, aiming at making mankind healthy, if not beautiful, for ever. There was a universality about it which was its chief recommendation. To say that I had never known what it was to have a day's illness, and that I was in the habit of taking his pills, I felt might be considered inconclusive

reasoning, cause and effect were not being sufficiently connected. So I represented myself as one who, blessed with a good constitution, had done his best to ruin it. I laid to my charge every known form of excess. Result, utter prostration. One foot in the grave, the other about to follow. Doctors at fault, friends and relations in despair. I blew my friend Frampton's trumpet with no uncertain sound. Who was it who recalled me to energy of mind and activity of body? Frampton! Who was it I blessed as my deliverer? Frampton ! Was it fair towards him, or considerate to the world at large, not to proclaim the name of this great benefactor of the human race? Clearly not. I had a duty to perform, and that was to inform the readers of the shire Chronicle of the great change that had been wrought in me. Frampton must have thought so too, for a week only elapsed before his secret of health was as widely diffused as the others. This letter must have been deemed sensational, or, to borrow an expression of Chief Justice Cockburn, in the Risk Allah Bey trial, picturesque ; for shortly afterwards, as I was calling at a chemist's in the town, waiting to be served, a gentleman came in, and showing my identical letter to the assistant, asked him if he was acquainted with the writer, and his position in life, as he had been sent down by his employers in London with instructions to offer me an agency on very liberal terms for the sale of his pills.

Encouraged by this flattering attention, I became a sort of literary chameleon, and, looking back, I am almost ashamed to think of the amount of imposition which I practised. That estimable woman the Widow Welch, and her Female Pill, were not suffered to escape; nor were the wonderful effects of the Pulmonic Wafer overlooked, while those who had coughs coughed no more after taking a few of Bainbridge's lozenges. But enough. Dies aderat when the eyes of the patent medicine vendors were opened. I never knew exactly how it came about; but I subsequently learnt that there was one central depôt in London, and that all the testimonials ultimately found their way there. Perhaps the clerk whose duty it was to collate the MSS. was absent on his holiday, and on his return he may have been struck with the similarity of the writing. Perhaps I grew rash with success, and overdid it. Be that as it may, I never lay down a local paper after reading a testimonial without thinking of my first essay at fiction, and hoping sincerely that what was sport to me was not death to others.

About the doings of the tuneful Muse

On Earth? Since Mendelssohn came down below-
And that seems ages long ago—I know
Of no Musician, worthy of the name,

Who deigns the honours of this place to claim.
Is the race quite extinct? Your men of song,
In general, don't live so very long;
The common fate of Genius they share,
Whose inward fire the strongest frame will wear.
Beethoven, true, was rather prone to riot,
But, possibly, his deafness kept him quiet;
And thus it was his fate on Earth to labour
Longer than Mozart, Mendelssohn, and Weber.
I speak not of myself, nor yet of you;
We never quarrelled, as musicians do ;
And so, of earthly life, enjoyed a span
As great as falls to any common man.
But though a shade all mortal passion spurns,
I'm not indifferent to what concerns

The progress of my Art; and so 'twere pleasant
To hear what's doing in that line at present.

HANDEL.

That wish you easily may gratify.
Amongst yon troop of spirits passing by,
You see that lean shade with a sallow face?
He's not been long a dweller in this place.
His name is Meyerbeer, and I was told
By Mendelssohn that many people hold

His operatic works in great esteem,

Though Mendelssohn, 'twixt you and me, don't seem
To care about them. See, he comes this way,
Let's hear what the lean shade has got to say.
You, Gluck, shall question him.

GLUCK.

Herr Meyerbeer,

Welcome to Hades; nay, good sir, draw near,
We all are followers of the gentle Muse,
And, to be friends, you, surely, won't refuse.
See, Bach and Handel, mighty men, I trow,
And gentle Mendelssohn-but him you know-
Lo! here Beethoven comes, with brow o'erladen,
On one side Mozart, on the other Haydn,
Eager to give-on earth the task is hard-
A kindly welcome to a brother bard.

MEYERBEER.

I know you all. Think not, oh mighty Handel, Because I am not fit to hold a candle To such as you, that I am blind to see The light in others which is not in me. Ye mighty Monarchs of the realms of Song,

Whose genius men have worshipped-aye, so longLow at your feet in reverence I fall.

HANDEL (aside).

Bless me, the Shade's no donkey after all.

MOZART.

Rise up, my little ghost.

MEYERBEER.

Little! forsooth, I'm quite as tall as you. To speak the truth,

Methinks I am the taller of the two.

MOZART.

Nay, don't be angry, friend, but tell us who On yonder Earth is king of music now? When Mendelssohn was taken from the plough In manhood's prime, he told us that Rossini, With Auber, Donizetti, and Bellini, And Weber, were the idols of the day. To them do nations still their homage pay?

MEYERBEER.

Verdi has kicked Rossini from his throne; There's no great love for Donizetti shown; Bellini's simple strains begin to pall; And as to Weber, he's no where at all. Gounod and Flotow are the heroes now; And great Auber to Offenbach must bow. The Traviata, or the Trovatore,

Of Il Barbiere have eclipsed the glory.

As Margarita Patti fills the stage ;

And Marta, sung by Nillson, is the rage.
To see La Belle Helène the people press;

And throng in crowds to view La Grande Duchess. You think I'm joking; nay, I'll tell you more, Mozart won't wash, and Handel is a bore.

HAYDN.

This change in taste applies to France alone, Not Germany and Italy; the tone

Is surely purer in those lands of song?

And what of British taste? is that, too, wrong?

MEYERBEER.

The sweeping censure I have dared to lance Applies to Germany as well as France.

As for poor Italy, I'm loth to chuck

A stone against a nation down in luck;
And British taste is past my comprehension,
To its vagaries I pay no attention.

But here's a shade from England just arrived,
And he can tell you what has now survived
Of ancient predilections.

SHADE.

Well, not one;

Aught that is old the British people shun,
To novelty alone they homage pay.
The Barrel Organs-

MOZART.

Stop, sir; what are they?

SHADE.

A Barrel Organ's like the public press, It echoes music which has most success.